


O The Joys Of Waking Up Dear Gideon!

by lunalovegoodsir



Series: Domestic!Mandelborne [1]
Category: Political RPF - UK 20th-21st c.
Genre: Domestic!Mandelborne, M/M, they have a dog called Han Solo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-08 15:28:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11649438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunalovegoodsir/pseuds/lunalovegoodsir
Summary: A short, badly written fic. George is late for an early morning meeting. Peter attempts various ways of waking him up for it. Mostly for his own amusement.





	O The Joys Of Waking Up Dear Gideon!

He laid in bed still. The pale complexion that Peter had grown accustomed to seemed paler in the morning light as he observed him. Of course, Peter had been awake for a few hours now. He never quite understood the appeal of laying in bed, letting the day pass by and time slip through your fingers. Donning his pinstriped bathrobe and sipping his organic green tea, he sits in the corner of the room by the window where he is currently skimming through his copy of The Guardian he had picked up on his morning walk with Han earlier. Upon completing this task, he remembers something he ought to remind George of as it increasingly looked as though he had forgotten to set the alarm clock on his phone for the morning. Looking over the rim of his reading glasses at George, he decides now would be an appropriate time to intervene. He starts with an attempt at casual conversation with the almost lifeless figure in his bed. It is, Peter acknowledges to himself, an almost cruel description of George when he knew the hacks were already calling him so.

“Did you know... Gordon once locked himself in a bathroom?”

“I might have accidentally invited the entire parliamentary Labour Party to a soirée at our house. It wasn’t my fault but they are or seem to be, I suspect this is Ed Balls’ work, under the impression that the 'standard soirée etiquette' is playing a 3 hour loop of Things Can Only Get Better. This might start chanting Tony’s name at some point but I can assure you this does not mean that Tony is going pop out of nowhere uninvited and make himself welcome in our home though I wouldn’t be surprised if he managed a way to do so, knowing him.”

Peter was awarded with a disgruntled reply from George who was prone to talking in his sleep, “Don’t you mean knowing you, Peter?”

Peter, an eternal optimist, thought this was a rather promising start

“I will not dignify that with an answer.” Silence. Right.

“Trainspotting isn’t a good movie.”

“We are breaking up, Boy George.”

“Tony and Gordon are breaking up so this means I can finally make my move on Tony.”

“Ed Balls.”

“Your mum called. She said she just let you believe that you had changed your name to George all these years because you were, in her words, adorably grumpy over it. You haven't actually, Gideon.”

“I am bringing my moustache back.”

“Remember when I said I wanted to sneak you into the Labour Party Conference this year? Well, I’ve signed you up for party membership. It’ll be 1994 all over again! Only this time, you’ll be one of us! I don’t know how your pal David is going to react to this though.”

“Did you know you sleep with your mouth open and you drool?”

Peter is exasperated. He thought that progress would have been easier than this.

“You know what? I am going to bring in Han and he is going to bark at you until you wake up.” This is followed by momentary silence as Peter glided silently out of their bedroom, only to return accompanied by the sound of the pattering of feet on the wooden floors of their bedroom.

“All right, Han. Use the force,” said Peter, gently placing their young golden retriever Han Solo on top of George. Han then proceeds to lavish him with slobbery kisses. Peter surmises that he would have done the same, had Han not thought of that tactic first. George, surprised by this development, is understandably groggy and would much rather continue his much deserved lie in. Rolling over in bed and further taking the sheets with him, he causes Han to lose balance. There is much whining from Han and disappointed head shaking from Peter who scoops Han off the floor and out of the room, murmuring words of reassurance that he had tried his best and that Daddy does indeed still love him.

George mistakenly believing that the war waged by Peter was over, drifts back into sleep. It is only minutes later when his phone starts blaring Pharell Williams’ Happy, causing George in his half-awake consciousness to scramble for it on the bedside. Grumbling, he answers the call, “‘ello?”

“Gideon. Gideon. Gideon. Gideon. Gideon. Gid-”

“Mhmm… ‘m tired, Peter. Leave me alone.” murmured George.

“Oh dear boy, I would if I didn't know that you have a Treasury meeting at 8 or that it's currently 7:45 or that your driver has been kept waiting outside the house for half an hour now. As much as I would like to see the Tory government collapse under the weight of its own idiocy, I don't wish for you to be the first to go, my dear. Theresa May would have been my first pick. Surely, you know that.” Peter dramatically re-enters the room, throwing the windows open as he does so.

George rolls onto his back and settles further into the covers. Even though his eyes remain shut, his eyebrows are pulled in a deep frown and his phone still nestled between his shoulder and his ear. As his brain finally makes sense of Peter’s words, he shoots up in bed, gasping with his eyes wide open. He is exasperated to find Peter on the edge of the bed, reading glasses perched on his nose and hazel eyes twinkling back at him. Peter looks rather smug but this comes as no surprise to George.

“Coffee’s on the side table. Despite finding this new look of yours with just the duvet on extremely appealing, I do suggest you get dressed,” Peter’s eyes avert downwards before ultimately resting at the dark bruises that contrasted the pale skin of George’s thighs in a fascinating way, “Promptly.”

And with that, Peter looks back into George’s bleary brown eyes and slaps the copy of The Guardian he had been holding onto all the while on his thigh before he swaggers out of the room, softly humming the tune to The Beatles’ A Day In The Life.

It is only several minutes later that Peter spots George as he shoots out the door, clutching at his red briefcase. Seeing George head off for work, he takes a good look at himself in the mirror in their hallway. Perhaps it was time to bring the moustache back. He smiled to himself, warming to the idea immediately.


End file.
